


In the Night

by elfbones



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Maeglin POV, Maeglin has weird thoughts sometimes, Oral Sex, Sleepy Sex, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfbones/pseuds/elfbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin has a nightmare, and decides that the best way to deal with it is to feel up a sleepy relative (who is generally okay with this).</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written in over four years. A lot of discussion with a certain someone got me to shipping these two super hard, and the sad lack of anything in the tags inspired this. It's been more than a month since I wrote it, and I've still barely edited it.
> 
> Written while listening to Touch by Daughter, which the title is shamelessly stolen from.

The night air chills the sweat dampening his skin as Maeglin steals through darkened passageways. Few are awake at this late hour, and fewer still are watching the streets. For that, he's absurdly grateful, though he knows that even were anyone about they would be unlikely to notice his discreet shadow slipping past them, quiet as an owl's wings.  
  
He finds his way into the house of the King as easily as though he were still dreaming. Only in the now still air does he notice how his thin shirt clings uncomfortably, and realize what a poor idea it was to leave his own chambers without first changing into more reasonable clothes. He is again glad that no one lingers in the halls, though for a different reason now. His awareness of how underdressed he is heats his face, embarrassment momentarily dulling the panic he had felt since waking. Still the screaming echoes in his ears, and worse, the accompanying feeling of helplessness.  
  
He swallows thickly, and continues on, quickly counting doors in the enclosing gloom. Colour seeps out of his surroundings without light to bring it alive, but he can still see far better than most here would be able to. He has never quite become accustomed to resting at night, and his sleep terrors find him more easily now than ever before. His skin prickles with restless energy in the heavy atmosphere, and he feels it clog his lungs, drawing out the time it takes to find the correct door, though it is as familiar to him as his own.  
  
He feels like a thief as he silently sneaks in, shutting the door and sliding the latch in place with nimble fingers. Maeglin picks his way carefully to where he knows his uncle sleeps, skirting the furniture in his path so instinctively that it would not matter if he were truly night blind. A sudden breeze settles over him as he comes near the bed, and he recalls that his uncle likes to sleep with the door to his balcony partly open on fair nights. It stills him, suddenly apprehensive. Is he a foolish child, who trespasses upon another's peaceful rest to selfishly demand they soothe his absurd fears? He stares blankly at the line of his uncle's neck in the dark, and at the braid falling messy and loose over his chest; his face is turned the other way. He abruptly wonders if he had ever snuck into his mother's room this way when he was small. His hands close into fists at the thought, feeling the wetness of his palms in an effort to distract himself from the creeping tingles in his fingers, and he decides that he must have. He remembers how she would gently brush the hair back from his brow when he was upset, and whisper softly to him. She did not like for him to linger in the room where his father slept, so of course his memories were mostly of sitting with her on a soft couch rather than on a bed.  
  
Maeglin takes a breath, and steps forward one last pace to slide his hand over the bedcovers. He slinks up onto them as softly as he can, but even the lightest dip in the mattress is enough to disturb Turgon. He shifts groggily, turning towards Maeglin with a sleep-clouded expression, and says "Lómion?" in a gently confused tone. Maeglin feels a shiver blanket him at the sound of that name in his uncle's deep, rich voice. His pulse throbs in his throat, and he craves to hear it again.  
  
Turgon blinks slowly at him, and then sighs wearily, but his long arm raises the sheets up and reaches towards Maeglin in invitation. Maeglin slides underneath without hesitation, and immediately finds himself pulled into a close embrace. He insinuates himself closer still, tucking his head beneath his uncle's chin and his nose against his collarbone, soaking in the musky and faintly salty scent of his skin. His fingers wander for a moment before they find the hair that tumbles over Turgon's chest, slipping into the loose strands that have slid free from his braid. Turgon exhales warmly against the top of his head, and seems to settle.  
  
Maeglin can't settle. His pulse still pounds sharply in his ears, and instead of soothing him the familiar warmth and scent only seem to set it beating faster. He turns his head slightly, sliding lips feather-light over the skin beneath them, followed by the very tip of his tongue. His uncle draws a quiet breath as the mouth coasts over the wings of his collarbones, and his arms loosen somewhat to allow Maeglin to move, but beyond that he remains still. Maeglin takes this as the tacit consent that it is, and licks a path up Turgon's strong neck. He tastes of ocean brine, deep and dark, and this - this is what comforts Maeglin. He noses along his uncle's ear, breathing hotly, nipping gently, and earns a somewhat sharper intake of breath. His hand traces idle, random patterns under the elder elf's loose shirt, gliding fingertips over nipples which pebble beneath his delicate touch. He raises a trail of gooseflesh as his hand wanders slowly, slowly lower, his nails scraping only just enough to tingle. The breaths disturbing Maeglin's hair grow steadily faster, and he lingers for a while over the shallow hollows of hipbones, attaching his mouth to Turgon's neck just below his ear to suck a mark there. Maeglin hears a soft breathy noise, almost nonexistent, and it settles such a warm feeling in his chest that he almost wants to remain this way, dazedly caressing until the sun rises. Instead he lets his hand find its destination, curling possessively around the arousal laying heavy between his uncle's legs. Finally Maeglin gets an honest gasp for his efforts, and the arm around him tightens, but thankfully not enough to restrain him. He firms his grip slightly, and pulls long and slow, enjoying the feel of another's heated flesh against his fingers instead of his own panic-clammy skin. He counts Turgon's breaths and times his strokes to them, breaking the rythm only to swipe the pad of his thumb over the leaking crown, using the wetness to ease the slide back down. Maeglin tilts his face and nudges Turgon's head back with a nuzzle so that he can better reach his throat, mouthing at the jumping pulse there and feeling the tendons work on a swallow. He keeps his eyes closed to drink in all the sensations, grounded by the heady masculine smell and the weight of the arms around him; no intrusive thought presses on him now, no lurking fear.  
  
Maeglin feels like he could continue like this for the remainder of the night, but after a while Turgon groans deep in his chest, and Maeglin's breath catches to hear it. He shifts his free hand out from beneath his own weight so he can feel it reverberate against his palm. His uncle doesn't shift restlessly or thrust into his hand; his control is too thorough for that, but Maeglin can feel the tension pulling his muscles tight. Suddenly Maeglin is impatient; he wants to feel him come, wants to hear him come. He speeds his strokes, and relishes the wet noises it makes. Turgon's breathing stutters, catching in his throat, and he hides his face in Maeglin's hair. Maeglin knows he's getting close when he starts murmuring soft nonsense. His uncle whispers familiar endearments and meaningless comforts half-formed or muffled. They never fail to make Maeglin's skin heat or his heart clench, though he can barely bear their weight in waking hours, under other circumstances.  
  
When the older elf does come it's with a breathy almost-pained sound. It tightens the fist around Maeglin's heart, and he pulls himself up a little so he can catch it on his lips. His hand is sticky, but he leaves it where it is for now, his arm stretching across Turgon's long torso. He opens his eyes to find himself being stared at. The colour of his uncle's eyes is washed out in the dark, but he knows it better than he knows his own, and in his mind he can see it; blue-grey like lake water in sunlight. The emotion in them is unfathomable to Maeglin, but it tightens the hand around his heart like a vise until he feels as though he can't breathe. Then he feels a hand rake up his back until it comes to gather up his tangled hair in a loose hold, and he's kissed with heartbreaking gentleness. He loses himself to it, until it breaks into several shorter kisses and soft puffs of shared air between the two of them.

Turgon's hand falls away to settle on his hip, and Maeglin follows the suggestion of a push over onto his back, and is immediately overshadowed as Turgon throws a leg over to his other side. He feels small beneath this elf, but he doesn't feel trapped or threatened as he might have once. Maeglin raises his hands to smooth over the broadness of his uncle's chest. He laces them behind the other elf's neck, and stares wonderingly at the warmth in those blue-grey eyes. Then he closes his eyes as Turgon leans further over him, as he presses a kiss to his nephew's forehead, and the bridge of his nose, and the corner of his mouth, and the sharp edge of his jaw. The kisses continue ever so slowly downward: one is bestowed to the tip of his ear, and it's Maeglin's turn to gasp. Then they travel down the side of his neck, lingering a little more heavily there, and a hand rucks his thin shirt up in the meantime.  
  
Maeglin suddenly becomes aware of how very aroused he is. How aroused he has been, but was too focused to really notice before. He shivers with the effort not to arch up against the body above him, so close to him. Or perhaps he shivers because the kisses stop at the hollow of his throat, and resume on the other side of his twisted up shirt. He feels like he might shake apart under the methodical tenderness. He would almost prefer any kind of pain to this, something more familiar and safe than this.

Down the kisses go, counting over his ribs, collected in his navel and his hips. Then suddenly, all at once and with no warning but a sudden rush of cool air against skin formerly covered, wet heat closes around him. At this he can't help but buck with a soundless cry, and is summarily pulled back down by the firm grip on his thighs. He babbles a stream of broken apologies, shame bubbling up in his stomach, but the fingers on his legs stroke soothing little circles before it can morph into panic.  
  
Maeglin's breath shakes its way out of his lungs while his uncle's mouth works over his arousal, up and down, making lewd sounds that break the tranquil quiet of the night. He fists a hand in the sheet beneath him, and works up the courage to push himself up a little and look. Turgon's hair has fallen almost completely out of its braid, and the curtain of it tickles Maeglin's leg as he moves. His uncle's eyes are closed, and he has a look of stern concentration on his face that should probably seem comical, but Maeglin is transfixed. He traces the outline of Turgon's thick eyelashes in the dark, barely able to fathom this though they've done it many times before.  
  
When he's taken down to the very base of his erection Maeglin lets himself fall back again, using his strength to hold back his voice, afraid of what he might say as his pleasure overtakes his mind and tongue. When Turgon pulls back to circle the head with his tongue Maeglin can't restrain a breathy whine, and then when he's sucked back down all the way he bites his lip. Turgon's patience is far greater than his own, and he knows that he wouldn't be able to draw this out much longer, even if he wanted to. As he thinks this, his uncle swallows several times, and hums a low and resonant note which shivers all the way through Maeglin's body.  
  
Maeglin's back arches as if of its own accord, leaving his weight cradled where strong hands cup the backs of his thighs, and he comes. Pleasure shocks through him and he shudders, pleas in several languages spilling unbidden past his lips, his fingers gripping at the bedsheets. He feels his seed being swallowed down, wringing out his overwrought nerves.  
  
Turgon withdraws, and Maeglin lets out a shuddery sigh, vaguely aware that the other is pulling himself up. He cracks his eyes open in response to a light touch on his face, and is dully surprised at the realization that there are tears clinging to the corners of his own eyes. Shame wells up again, but Turgon only smiles brokenly at him, sad and fond, and leans down to kiss them away. Maeglin catches his breath before it can turn into a sob, and presses his cheek against his uncle's. For a small time they remain that way.  
  
When Maeglin's heart slows, Turgon rolls over onto his back and gingerly draws his nephew along. An arm encircles Maeglin again, and he rests his head against his uncle's chest, rubbing his face against him a bit as he seeks a comfortable enough position. Fingers card through his hair.  
  
"Can you sleep now?" asks the voice rumbling beneath his ear like the roll of the sea.  
  
Maeglin nods, resting his hand on his uncle's sternum and listening to his heart beat slow and steady. Turgon draws the bedcovers up over them both.


End file.
